


put up your defenses when you leave

by chailattemusings



Series: siren songs [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Death mention tw, M/M, Multi, murder mention tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chailattemusings/pseuds/chailattemusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith isn't a charity and he doesn't take in wandering souls with sap stories. Trott is the only exception to that rule.</p>
<p>But of fucking course it's his luck that he finds an old church and the lonely creature living inside it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put up your defenses when you leave

At night, the city belonged to Smith.

He couldn't catch good prey during the day. People weren't as trusting; they had errands and jobs to do, and the sunlight made the flash of Smith's teeth just a little too obvious.

Besides, ever since he and Trott had moved in together, Smith had been _busy_ in the daylight hours. Pickpocketing to get them the cash they needed, shopping for groceries– which was sometimes shopping and sometimes shoplifting– and scouting for a bigger house took up all his time. Trott, the bugger, insisted on making an “honest” living by getting plans together to start a business, but he claimed that their first priority was scraping together enough cash to avoid being stuck in a rinky dink apartment for the rest of their lives.

Smith sighed and brushed a hand through his hair, reaching down to open the window. Late summer air washed over him, tinged just slightly with the chill of the coming autumn. He hadn't needed to find prey as often; with Trott around the sexual aspect of hunting had dropped off. Trott's sassy mouth and his attractive ass were already in Smith's bed every night. But it still felt good to go out, so once every couple of weeks Smith sought out the prettiest thing at the bars and dragged them to his car for dinner and a show, not necessarily in that order.

The time after always left a stale taste in his mouth though. It wasn’t the same to hunt when he had someone waiting for him at home.

Smith grabbed the coffee he'd picked up from a cafe after the hunt– he'd actually paid for it this time– and took a long, slow sip. He needed somewhere quiet to wind down before he went home. Trott would bite his head off if he was still eager for blood when he came back, and Trott could tell. The magic of the lure and the scent of fresh blood was hard for a selkie to miss.

Smith drove for nearly an hour, looking for the best spot. The city streets weren't completely clear, but it was the hour when most reasonable people had gone home and into bed, and the unreasonable people were at their night shifts, too occupied to be driving. Smith tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and hummed quietly along with the radio. It was blasting some vague R&B beat that he didn't recognize, but it had the easy rhythm of any song on the radio.

Eventually, he came to a part of town he wasn't very familiar with. The roads narrowed slightly, turning from busy intersections and numerous stoplights to the quieter streets of the shopping district. All parking was nonexistent and the buildings were small, quaint places for the locals to pop in when they needed to look at something shiny displayed on a shelf, and for the tourists to spend whatever cash they'd brought on their trips.

Smith slowed down and looked out the side windows, glancing at the dark shops and quiet duplex homes smashed between them. Between the multilevel buildings that housed tourist traps and offices, there was a small alley, and next to it, high stone archways.

Stopping, Smith leaned out his window and looked up.

An old church, nestled where everyone would see it and no one would notice it. The walls were crumbled at the edges, stone falling off the walls and parapets, worn down from years of rain and snow. The doors were aged, nearly falling off their rusted hinges. A sign hanging on one of the rotting wood doors said “Under Renovations” but the sign was old, too, the paint chipped and scratched.

An abandoned church, then. Smith had never heard of it, but his interest wasn't in the local history. His attention shifted to the short alley that led behind the church. He could see an open space of asphalt. The perfect place to park for a couple hours while he wound down.

Smith drove forward again and turned into the alley. It turned behind the church, barely big enough to fit five or six cars, but it was exactly what Smith needed. He parked crookedly on the spaces that might once have been a neat row for cars, but was now a mess of cracked asphalt, trash, and broken beer bottles. He leaned back in his seat and grabbed his coffee again. Smith turned to radio up and pushed his chair back, sipping his coffee with a satisfied sigh.

No humans or fae were there to bother him, and anyone who might have protested to his presence had left the church long ago. There was only himself, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He finished his coffee and sat in his car for a while, letting the radio music wash over him. The night breeze had calmed, leaving cool air. Smith ruffled his hair a few times while he sat just to enjoy the feeling of it.

 

* * *

 

He hadn't had a calm like that in quite a while. No one had bothered him, even accidentally, and when he came home, Smith was relaxed and easily let Trott whine at him about coming home at all hours, not even objecting to Trott's accusations like he usually would.

The next time Smith went out hunting and needed a calm place to relax afterward, he didn't even pause before turning down the roads toward the old church. He blasted the radio and bopped his head along to the beat, tempted to reach into his pocket for a cigarette. But as he pulled into the church parking lot again he thought better of it, and shifted his chair to just lean back and listen.

The music was good, but there was something off about it. Something underneath the melody didn't sound quite right, and it was off tempo. Smith frowned and glanced at the radio. It _looked_ fine. He tapped the dashboard a couple times with his fist, as if that was the magic solution, and leaned back again. For a minute, it sounded fine, and Smith wondered if there was some credit to the simple spell of banging on a music box to make it work.

But then the strange undercurrent was back. Smith clenched his hands and sat up, leaning close to the radio. The closer he got, the more the undercurrent faded, until he was right next to the speakers and blasting his ears, hearing none of the strange interference.

Smith moved away, and there it was again. Gentle, like it was afraid of disturbing the peace, and barely loud enough to hear over the radio. Smith wasn't like a dog in terms of hearing, but he'd developed an ear ever since Trott had started using the siren song against him. He could pick up Trott's wailing from a good distance and cover his ears before Trott got more than half a note into it.

Whatever was playing along with his radio, it wasn't coming from inside the car.

Smith turned the radio off and caught a couple notes before the sound died abruptly. Singing. Whoever was around had heard his radio and had been singing along. Smith growled and opened his door, whipping his head back and forth. He'd claimed this spot, damn it, and he wouldn't let some upstart choir wannabe wreck it for him when it was only his second go around.

There was no one that Smith could see. No bratty teens, no homeless people, no one sneaking into the church in a misguided attempt at faith. The parking lot was empty and he couldn't hear the song anymore.

Sighing, Smith leaned in the open window of his car and turned the radio back on. It blasted an annoying pop tune that made him grit his teeth, but he dealt with it, leaning on the side of his car with his arms crossed.

A minute passed, and another. Smith watched the area, looking for any sign of someone who had failed to get on _American Idol_ and was taking it out on Smith's evening hours.

Then, it was there again. Smith almost missed it, kicking off the side of his car with his keys in hand. He'd nearly opened the door again when it reached his ears, and he paused. It was there, on the edges of the music, that soft sound that was far from professional singing, but was sweet all the same. You'd have to twist Smith's arm and make him bleed before he admitted anything was _sweet_ , but the thought was there, running over the sound of the quiet singing.

Smith turned from the car, letting the radio blare, and moved to the one place left to check. Someone had to be _in_ the church, for him to hear it. The back door was open, broken off its hinges years ago. Inside, he could see the back of the front altar and a small podium that had been toppled on its side. Beyond that were decrepit pews, resting on top of molded and chewed out carpet. Smith walked up the back steps and paused just outside the doorway.

The singing had stopped again. Smith tried to walk in and hissed. The barrier stung his skin and zapped down his spine, a sharp warning. He backed up and glared at the church. A place like this without anyone using it shouldn't _have_ a barrier. Barriers were made by the people who used their territory, and buildings in particular needed constant ownership and upkeep to enchant their thresholds. Smith couldn't cross into houses without being invited, and for a church it might make sense that he would need someone's blessing to be present, as sacred as churches were treated.

But this thing had been abandoned years ago. It still stood as a monument in the city, but unused and unwatched, it definitely shouldn't have been able to hurt him simply because he wanted to go inside.

Smith braced himself and walked forward again, gritting his teeth at the pounding in the back of his skull, like someone was taking a hammer to it. What an abandoned church had to protect, Smith couldn't imagine, but he'd definitely heard singing, and the threshold spell was just confirmation that someone was here. He wanted to find out who.

He broke through the door, intact but ears ringing. Smith straightened and pulled the edges of his jacket, settling himself. He glanced left and right; no sign of a witch ready to strike him down, and no circles to catch him in. Just an old church.

The back door opened to stairs beside the altar. Smith climbed up and looked at the altar itself. A long time ago, it probably would have had a table covered with a long, white sheet, with some golden candlesticks on top. Now, there was nothing but empty space. In front of it was a toppled and rotted podium, once a place for a clergy person to speak to the masses.

The pews were empty, most of them covered in dust and rat feces. The carpet beneath Smith's feet had once been red, now faded to grey and chewed to pieces. The stones were covered in cobwebs and the floor beneath the carpet had cracked.

The only piece of the church still intact were the stained glass windows. They didn't have dust or cobwebs, and though they didn't shine in the middle of the night, Smith could see the myriad of colors, patterned to mimic images from the Christian Bible.

Smith wasn't a church man. He'd never put much stock in religion. But looking up at the stained glass closest to him, at the image of the famous Mary surrounded by angels, he could almost think there was something special about the people who were so dedicated to their faith.

Smith eventually tore his eyes from the window, glancing about the room. There was still no singing, but when he breathed in, Smith could sense the protective magic; the air was soaked with it, with the taste of something that didn't want intruders. No plain human would have been deterred by it, unaware of magic as they were, but witches and fae would sense it. They would know that someone here didn't want to see this church come to harm.

All the protection in the world couldn't fight natural decay, though.

“Hello?” Smith called, looking up at the ceiling. It was the only real place to hide, but the stone archways above his head showed nothing except more cobwebs. “I know you're here,” he said, looking at the pews again. Perhaps someone was hidden beneath them. “Songs don't sing themselves, mate. I don't want trouble, I'm just curious.” Smith breathed in again, but he couldn't find a definitive source for the magic in the air around him.

Nothing answered his calls. Smith clicked his tongue. He'd expected a runaway teen or a homeless person, someone to explain the singing, even someone nonmagical. The magic could possibly be a remnant of when the church was active and the thousands of humans that blessed the place gave it inadvertent shields, but there was no sign of anyone, magical or otherwise.

Smith waited another minute, and shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “But don't expect me to leave. Your parking lot's mine now.”

Still no one answered, and Smith turned to leave. The protection on the threshold didn't hurt him on the way out, designed only to keep people away. Smith glanced back at the broken door and the church beyond it.

Whoever had been singing along to his radio didn't want to be found. Smith knew the feeling well.

 

* * *

 

He continued to come back to the church parking lot like clockwork.

Every few weeks Smith went out hunting while Trott stayed at home and worked on getting his business started. Their apartment was slowly filling with pieces of themselves, bits of clothes and old take out food and personal luxuries that made the place look lived in. Every once in a while Smith needed some time to remind himself that he hadn't _planned_ to be this tied down.

He went out and hunted, and when he wanted to wind down, he went to the church. The first time he returned after going inside the church, he'd expected to hear someone singing again. But his radio had played for hours without any hint of someone joining in. Smith had sighed and left the matter alone, driving home to curl into bed with Trott.

The third time was the charm, though, or so the saying went. The third hunt Smith went out on after trying to confront the mysterious church goer, he heard the singing again.

It was easy to miss, with the music. The low bass pounded through the car loud enough to vibrate Smith's teeth, but he heard it. A voice was singing along to the beat, stopping and starting when the rhythm changed or the song ended, picking up when the tune got familiar again. Smith sat in his car for an hour listening to whoever was singing.

He ran through the possibilities in his head.

A teenager trying to mess with him: possible.

A homeless person with a skill for song: not likely.

A witch who meant to lure him in: it wouldn't be the first time.

Smith pulled his teeth back to inspect them in the mirror, flicking a bit of cigarette paper off one. Teens weren't persistent enough to keep up a ruse like this, and a witch would have done him in the first time he'd walked in the church. And the fact remained that there _was_ an enchantment on the church's threshold, whether it was done by the singer or not. Something was protecting the place.

It begged the question of why he even cared. Smith leaned back in his seat and sighed. If no one had been singing to his radio, he wouldn't have gone in the church, and if there wasn't magic in the church, he wouldn't have cared about who he found that thought it was fun to play sing-a-long.

But all three factors put together made his brain itch. It was like meeting Trott all over again; if Smith didn't get all the details, he would drive himself up the wall with theories and questions.

He didn't get out of the car that night, but he kept listening to the voice that sang under his music. He could barely hear it, let alone tell any of the characteristics. He'd need to get closer if he wanted a clue about who it was, and why they wanted to sing and yet wouldn't show themselves to Smith.

 

* * *

 

Trott laughed at him.

“A what?” He stopped with a fork full of overbaked Chinese noodles halfway to his mouth, and set the fork down on his plate with a loud _tink_. “You want a stereo?”

“Yeah.” Smith played with his food, not watching the movie Trott had put on for them both.

Trott waited a beat, then asked, “Why?”

“I dunno, Trott, maybe because we live in a shit hole?” Smith waved his arm and let it fall on the couch they'd stolen from the dump two months prior. “Can I help it if I want nice things?”

“No,” Trott said slowly, setting his plate on their coffee table. It promptly undid the delicate balance of pizza boxes and magazines, a few piles clattering to the floor to make room for the plate. Trott glared at the table, and looked at Smith. “But usually if you want something, you just _take_ it.”

Smith shifted under his gaze, playing with his rice. “Maybe I'm being considerate for once. Ever think of that?”

Trott burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. “Mate,” he said, nearly choking on the words, “you're about as considerate as a _doorknob_.” He snorted and calmed himself, the laughter dying away. He looked level at Smith again, tilting his head. “Seriously, what the fuck do you want a stereo for? Don't you have that car with the good radio?”

“For now, yeah.” Smith put a hand on the pocket of his leather jacket; his keys were still in there, jangling when he touched them. “You know I don't keep a car for more than six months.”

Trott shrugged and picked his plate back up, toppling another magazine in the process. He apparently decided not to care, putting his feet up and kicking several more piles of trash off the table. “Do whatever you want,” he said, spearing his noodles back onto his fork. “But don't spend my money and don't get caught if you steal it.”

Smith grinned. “What, are you afraid I'll get locked up? Don't wanna come and get me from the city jail?”

“I _won't_ come get you,” Trott shot back. “You can rot in there for twenty years' worth of car theft and I'll be sat here looking at your ugly mug shot on the news.”

“Oi!” Smith growled and shoved Trott's shoulder, nearly tossing his food. “My mug shot would be the most beautiful damn thing you ever saw, and you'd be lucky if I used my one phone call on you, ya prick.”

Trott shoved him back and laughed, flashing his teeth at Smith. “So you're getting a stereo?”

Smith paused and looked down at his food. “Yeah, I'm getting a stereo.”

 

* * *

 

He found one in a bin of returned items behind an electronics shop. There was a crate of them sitting by the back door and it was easy for Smith to slink out from behind the dumpster and take his pick. There had been two, and he took the one without a large dent in the side of it.

He'd owned a stereo once, when he wasn't inclined to bring victims to his car and instead pulled them inside a motel room he'd rented for three years. They never liked his music but they were always too enchanted by his spells to ask him to change it.

Smith had lost that stereo and his collection of CDs just before coming to this city, but he didn't need them. The radio was what he wanted. If the plan took off, the stereo would be a good addition to his and Trott's apartment later.

Smith put it in the backseat the next time he went out, and in the early hours of the morning, he went to the church again. It was as deserted as always and Smith parked across two spaces. Rather than sit back and enjoy his car's radio, he got out and took the stereo with him.

The threshold on the church still made him wince. Smith growled under his breath and ventured inside, glancing around. There was no sign of anyone, alive or dead, but the stained glass shone under the pale moonlight of a late evening. Smith picked the nearest spot on the edge of the altar that wasn't covered in rat feces and set the stereo down, flicking it on.

It powered up and set itself to the default radio station. Smith fiddled with the knob until he found something he liked, and leaned back, settling with his hands behind him, supporting his weight.

He sang along to the songs he knew, keeping the words quiet and breathy in the way that people sang when they didn't actually want anyone to hear them. It made it hard to hit the proper notes, but it wasn't about the song. It was about the spell.

Something shifted on the ceiling above. Smith ignored it, still singing. It wasn't the same as Trott's siren song. Smith never needed to sing to lure in his prey; it was all about looking pretty and slathering on the charm like cheap lipstick. The music had been luring the singer in the church, though, and if Smith had learned anything over the years, it was that your first instinct was usually the correct one.

He'd wanted to use music to lure the person out, and if he could judge by the sound of skittering claws on the stone ceiling, he'd done it right.

The radio crackled. Smith halted his singing and glanced down, fiddling with the knob again. In the space filled by static, the sound of movement was clearer. It was scratches and sharp knocking noises, like stone banging against stone. Smith went stiff, and flicked the radio back to a good station. He sang again, and this time, there was another voice.

It was deep, deeper than his own. It couldn't compare to Trott, who had the voice of a bass singer despite his small stature, but it was pleasant. Smith sang as quietly as he could manage while keeping the spell alive, listening for where the person– faerie or human– might be.

Something dropped from higher on the ceiling, catching on the lip of a window. Smith cut off and looked up, eyes wide. There was a shape, a body, visible in the moonlight for only a second before it scrambled back into the shadows, clinging to the wall.

“Hey, mate,” Smith said, smiling. “I knew you were here somewhere. It's rude not to answer when someone tries to talk to you, you know.”

The shadow shifted, and Smith heard the sound of stone knocking together again. His brow furrowed, an idea percolating at the back of his mind. He forced his voice to keep its casual ease and said, “Well, if you like, you can keep listening. I'm gonna be here a while.” He reached down and turned up the volume on the radio, bopping his head to the new, upbeat melody. It was one he didn't know, but he listened to the chorus and parroted it under his breath when it came back around, learning the song and ignoring the person by the window.

Whoever they were, they didn't move while Smith hummed and tapped his foot along to the music. The luring spell wasn't working quite right, Smith could feel, but he'd never done it like this. He ignored the flow of magic in the air and the uncomfortable itch in the back of his throat, keeping his eyes on the broken pews of the church.

He couldn't sing forever, and he didn't. Smith stopped after five more songs, resting his voice while the stereo scratched on beside him. He looked up. The person was still there. There was just enough moonlight to make out the pale glint of two eyes, and something else behind them; something that moved in a slow pattern, back and forth. Like a tail.

“You can stare,” Smith said, grinning. “I know I'm a piece of work. I'd rather you came down, though.” The dance of coaxing someone shy and wary into his grasp was a delicate one. If Smith pushed too hard, they would run away, but if he didn't give them the right attention, they would hide.

The person by the window moved again, out of the shadows. Stone hit stone again, and they crawled over the wall, back to the windowsill above Smith's head. The moonlight fell on them, barely enough to make out their features, but it was enough.

The man at the window did indeed have a tail, dark blue and shining like glass, but it was hardly the most interesting thing about him. Smith's brain tripped on the fact that he was naked, and he quickly locked eyes with him, seeing bright blue staring down. The man was _big_ , bigger than Smith or Trott, and had thick muscles. He wasn't beefy like the men humans put in their magazines, but the way his skin rolled when he shifted almost had Smith panting. He'd come across a lot of beauties in his life; he knew damn well when to pay attention.

“The music,” the man said, speaking properly for the first time. His voice had the familiarity of the voice that had been singing along with Smith. “Why'd you bring it here?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Smith gathered himself and managed a shrug, his mind whirling to pinpoint what exactly the man was. Certainly not a faerie, because Smith knew faeries when he saw them and this was _not_ a faerie. But he wasn't human, either, and the magic Smith could feel pouring off his skin matched that in the church air, the shield of protection that had nearly stopped him from coming inside.

He waved casually to the stereo. “I thought you would like it. I heard you singing along with my radio, when I was in the car.”

The man made a face, disbelief twisting his mouth. “Why do you care?”

Smith's eyes flicked to the man's hands, where he was clinging to the window with claw-like nails. He could hear faint scratchings each time the man shifted, the sound of stone again. His skin looked wrong, too. He wasn't natural. “Curiosity,” he said in answer, looking back at the man's face. “My name's Smith, what's yours?”

The man went tense, fingers tight on the edge of the window. He pulled himself off the wall and sat in the cradle of the sill, the moonlight bathing him where it poured through the stained glass. It wasn't bright enough for the colors to show on his skin, but Smith could see him better now. He had a crop of short black hair that didn't stir when he moved, and his face was set in a hard expression, eyebrows furrowed. His skin didn't wrinkle, though, not like it would for most humanoids. “Don't have a name,” he said curtly.

Smith swallowed, sitting up straighter. A creature of stone and glass without a name, watching over an abandoned church. He'd heard things once, long ago, about the myth and magic behind religious sites and the idols that humans erected to protect them.

He hadn't thought it was possible for one of them to come to life, but he'd seen more bizarre things in his life.

“No one named you?” he asked. “No mommy or daddy around to bother with it?”

The man flinched and shook his head. His face hardened again and he glared at Smith. “Why are you asking? Are you trying to hurt me?”

Smith scoffed and leaned forward, pushing off the floor. It was a viable question to a faerie; names were dangerous tools. But Smith didn't have the patience to pretend like he was going to snatch the man's name away in a spell of fire and brimstone.

He stood with his hands on his hips, blinking up at the gargoyle. Those were what Christians used on their churches, didn't they? The tail certainly looked monstrous enough, though the man didn't have wings to go with it. “If I wanted to hurt you, mate, I would have already done it. I'm here with this shit stereo in an old church because I wanted to know who the fuck was in here singing songs like a ditz. I just wanted your name, no need to be rude.”

The man's lips pulled back in a snarl, his knees coming up to rest on the sill and readying himself to jump down. “I'm the protector of the church. That's all you need to know.”

“An abandoned church?” Smith raised a hand to gesture to the room. “What's there to protect?”

“More than you know!” the man snapped. He sat up on the sill and braced both hands on the edges. “I swear if you hurt one inch of this place–”

“Whoa!” Smith put both hands up defensively. “Relax, mate, I wasn't gonna hurt your precious church.” He stepped back, giving the man some room. “I just wanted to know why you’re here, mate. I didn't mean any harm.” Smith was surprised to hear the words come from his mouth, but they were true. He didn't care about the church or the history behind it; he'd just wanted to have an identity for the mysterious singer. “Look,” he said, when the man's anger didn't waver, “I'll get going, all right? No need to bust a gasket.”

The man's shoulders dropped, but he kept his stance on the windowsill, watching Smith intently. Smith picked up the stereo and flicked it off, glancing up again. The man didn't look like he would move anytime soon. Smith raised a hand in a short wave. “I'll see you later, mate.”

The man's nose wrinkled. “Bye.”

Smith snorted and turned around. Trott not wanting him at the beach hadn't stopped Smith from pestering him. A gargoyle stuck in an old church with centuries old magic wouldn't keep him at bay, either.

 

* * *

 

Trott raised an eyebrow at him from the collapsable table that served as his desk. “A gargoyle,” he drawled, setting his pen down and slipping his reading glasses off his nose. “In a church.”

“Where else would you find one, Trottsky?” Smith emerged from the fridge with a fresh can of beer and snapped the tab down, taking a long gulp. He wiped his mouth and grinned at Trott. “He's super fucking hot, too, got all these muscles and long legs. I don't fucking care if he's made of stone and glass, I would definitely hit it.”

Trott frowned and looked back at his paperwork. He was busy doing their finances and trying to scrounge enough together to save for his business plan. At the rate they were going, it looked like they would have enough for Trott's store in about twenty years time.

Smith settled on the arm of the couch, staring across the room at Trott. “What, you don't believe me?”

“I don't know how _stone_ could be attractive,” Trott said slowly, his eyes still on his work, “but I'll take your word for it. So what are going to do?”

“Keep bringing music to the church?”

“And after that?” Trott asked without hesitation.

Smith opened his mouth, and closed it. He hadn't gotten quite that far. “I dunno,” he said, shrugging and fiddling with the metal tab on his beer. “I thought maybe he'd tell me his name eventually, and maybe why he's stuck in that old church without any clothes.”

Trott perked up, pausing to look at Smith. “He's sitting in there _naked_?”

Smith grinned. “Ah, did I forget to mention that?”

Trott swallowed and sat up. “So he's really a looker, huh?”

“One of the best, Trott, fucking hell.” Smith ran a hand through his hair and sucked in a breath. “It makes sense that he's a fucking gargoyle. I've only met a couple people with hips like _that_. I wanna meet whoever made him and thank them.”

Trott tapped his pen on the table and tilted his head, staring into space. “Who do you think _did_ make him? I mean, an enchanted living gargoyle isn't exactly common. And if he's watching the church, he must have some kind of spell compelling him to do it.”

Smith pursed his lips and dropped the hand from his hair, scratching down his neck. “I mean, magic is magic. Thousands of people probably went to that church in its heyday. It would've been easy for them to wish life into a guardian statue.”

“But do people usually do that?” Trott asked, pointing his pen and Smith. “I'm not religious but I've certainly never given gargoyles more than a passing thought. They're decorations. They're not supposed to have attention drawn to them.” He leaned back in his chair and stuck his pen in his mouth. “I reckon if he's alive, it means someone did it on purpose.”

Smith hummed and took another sip of his beer. A piece of living stone that watched over the oldest church in the city wasn't the first on his list of charity cases. He swirled his beer and wondered idly if the man was lonely, by himself in a big building with only the spiders for company.

Why Smith suddenly _cared_ was another mystery, but he'd chased worse threads for less fun.

“I want to know his name,” Smith said, declaring it like it was a challenge. Trott raised an eyebrow at him, and he went on, “Getting people to trust me is my favorite game, Trottsky.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Trott said, turning back to his work. “Just don't get yourself killed or cursed.”

Smith scoffed and took another swig of beer.

 

* * *

 

He went back a week later. The chill of winter was starting to set in and the city was changing. Snow now sometimes fell instead of rain, disappearing before it hit the ground, and the stores had all put up their Christmas advertisements.

The church had a different air about it, too. Even though no one attended mass there anymore, the coming of the holiday and the swell of new faith in the citizens on the streets had the magic around the church sparking anew. No doubt people passed by the building and thought of their faith, the belief channeling itself into the church's ancient shields.

Smith brought the stereo again. All the songs had turned to disgusting Christmas mantras with the odd nondenominational tune thrown in. He shivered when he passed through the church's barrier; it was stronger and left a bad taste down his throat, like he'd choked on something sour.

He didn't see the gargoyle right away, but that didn't matter. Smith sat down and turned the stereo on, patting his hands in a vague beat on the wooden seat of the pew. The wood was old and starting to rot, giving more than wood ought to at Smith's added weight. He looked up at the rafters, hoping for a glimpse of the man.

“You're back.”

Smith turned and looked behind him. The man was sitting on the small balcony above the front door, where once a glorious pipe organ had sat, and now there was only rusted metal remains.

He smiled. “Of course I'm back, mate. How could I stay away from such a pretty face?”

The man tilted his head, unimpressed. “You're a faerie.”

Smith shifted to sit sideways over the edge of the pew and look at the gargoyle without twisting his neck. He put a hand on his chest and thumped it proudly. “You bet your sweet arse I am. How'd you figure that?”

“There's dangerous magic around you,” the man said, coiling his legs underneath him like he had the last time, ready to spring himself at Smith. “Do you kill humans?”

Smith leaned back, blinking. He certainly didn't waste time. Smith searched his mind for the right words; how to tell the truth without coming off badly?

Not that coming off badly _mattered_.

“I don't target church goers,” he said at last, meeting the gargoyle's eyes. “You don't have anything to worry about, mate.”

The man shifted, eyes narrowed. “Do you attack buildings?”

“Nope,” Smith said, popping the end of the word on his lips.

The man debated for another moment, and stood up. He went to the edge of the balcony and dropped down. Smith waited as he crossed the center aisle between the seats and stopped a good ten feet from him, face still set hard. “You have music again.”

Patting the stereo, Smith said, “Do you wanna listen?”

The gargoyle scrunched his face, thinking. Smith didn't say anything, turning to sit properly on the pew again and bop his head to the next cheery holiday beat that played.

A minute later, there was a solid weight next to him. The gargoyle hadn't sat on the pew, but rather the floor, and Smith could feel the change through where his feet rested on the rotting carpet. The floor beneath them made long scraping sounds, the familiar tone of stone rubbing together as the gargoyle forced the old bricks to move as he sat down. He crossed his legs and wrapped both hands over his ankles, looking up at Smith. “What are you?” he asked.

There were a million answers to that, but Smith knew which one he wanted. “A kelpie.”

The man shifted, his glass tail flicking. It moved exactly like a living creature, and Smith couldn't help watching it. It had a pointed end that looked sharp enough to cut skin. On the man's head were a pair of horns made of the same glass material, glinting in the dim moonlight.

“Can I ask a question too?” Smith said, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knees.

The man met his eyes. “You just did.” His lips tipped up, unbelievably, into the hint of a smile.

Smith grinned back. “You motherfucker, you know what I meant.” He paused to let the man's smile grow, and said, “What's your name?”

The smile dropped, and the gargoyle turned away, looking at the floor. He stared for a long moment. Smith waited him out, his own eyes wandering over the gargoyle's stiff hair and the strange shift of stone muscles buried under stone skin.

“Ross,” the man said, looking up again. “My name's Ross.”

Smith leaned up and put his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Ross. You're a right tosser for waiting so long to tell me that.”

Ross laughed, a low sound that shook like an earthquake, and he took Smith's hand. His stone grip nearly crushed his fingers and Smith winced. Ross smiled again, keeping hold, and said, “You've got to earn what you get from a gargoyle, mate.”  


End file.
